


The Fire Which Refuses to Burn Itself Out

by AllThatWeSeeOrSeem



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Arguments, Biting, Desire, Dry Humor, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Smut, Jealousy, Light Angst, Long Hair, M/M, Mild Language, Much the Same as the First Story, Naked Cuddling, Non-Graphic Descriptions of Burns, Pillow Talk, Sequel, Sexual Content, porn strung together with moments of plot, sexual banter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-08
Updated: 2017-06-08
Packaged: 2018-07-13 00:39:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,603
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7131017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AllThatWeSeeOrSeem/pseuds/AllThatWeSeeOrSeem
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They are bound together by the destructive force of fire, unsure if the understanding that comes from similar experiences is strong enough to keep them together. When Glorfindel travels to Mirkwood to be reunited with Thranduil after being forced to spend a year apart, arguments both old and new cast doubt on whether or not the two elves will remain lovers. Sequel to “Fire and Scars”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I thought this story line was well and truly done, but these two started screaming at me again last week, and I found them too insistent to ignore. I have been away from AO3 for a few months now, too busy trying to complete my university practicum, but that is almost done and I should have more time over the summer to devote to writing fiction instead of essays and reports.

The letter arrives as autumn does. Carried by messenger from Mirkwood to Imladris, it holds confessions of desire and wishes for a love re-kindled. It is not the first letter of its kind, but it is the most ardent, promising a winter full of passion if only its recipient will relent. 

The letter is answered with equally lust-filled promises.

When the leaves on the trees in the valley of Imladris begin to turn from green to shades of yellow and orange and brown, Glorfindel requests permission to journey to Mirkwood. It is granted, reluctantly, by his lord, and then only as a diplomatic mission to secure a trade in wine.

“Do not take a cart, the journey will only be slower and winter is fast approaching.” Lord Elrond advises, hardly looking up from the papers spread upon his desk, “Purchase one once you are there for the return journey in the spring.”

Glorfindel agrees to this with only a nod of his golden head, but still his lord does not look up.

There had been tension between them since King Thranduil had visited Imladris the previous winter. The visit had found common ground and kindled a love between the woodland king and the balrog slayer, forcing Glorfindel to end the casual intimacy which had grown between Elrond and himself in the years since Elrond’s wife had sailed West. 

Glorfindel knows his lord does not begrudge him his happiness, but knows equally that he regrets his loss. 

Sometimes Glorfindel, too, feels nostalgic for the days when he could take his lord in his arms and make love to him. It was always so easy between them, trust and friendship paving the way for more intimate acts. Sometimes, Glorfindel misses waking in the morning to the sight of a dark head laying beside his own on the pillow.

But Glorfindel is nothing if not loyal. And perhaps such longings are simply due to the great distance which separates him from Thranduil, leaving him with no outlet with which to vent his desires. 

“And you will be taking my sons with you.” Elrond adds, just as Glorfindel shakes himself from his distraction and turns to leave the room.

“Your sons?”

At that Elrond does look up, and fixes his seneschal with a calculating gaze, “Yes, my sons. It will be good for them to spend some time hunting spiders instead of orcs.”

“As you wish it, my lord.”

And that is that.

Glorfindel does not see the moment in which Elrond finally abandons his papers, as he has already turned and is moving towards the door. He does not see the agony in his lord’s eyes, misses completely the longing gaze that follows him from the room. 

Less than a week afterwards Glorfindel, accompanied by an over-eager Elladan and a somewhat more reluctant Elrohir, departs Imladris headed east.

******

Their arrival in Mirkwood is heralded with little fan-fare, but when Glorfindel once again sets eyes on King Thranduil, seated atop his throne wreathed in great antlers, he feels the breath leave his body.

Thranduil is as regal as ever, as strikingly beautiful as Glorfindel remembers from their time together, and he must force himself to stand still and not climb the steps of the throne to haul the elf king into his arms. 

Thranduil’s reception is outwardly cold, but his eyes as they meet Glorfindel’s are heated. Glorfindel wonders briefly if the elf king has worked to hide their involvement, but the hostile gaze which is being leveled at him by Thranduil’s son is enough to indicate that, if he had, it had not been entirely successful.

Elrond’s sons are greeted diplomatically enough before the three travelers are escorted away to private rooms to rest and bathe.

The room Glorfindel finds himself in is small but adequate. The lack of windows is disturbing to him after the airy, open rooms of Imladris, the crystal lamps a poor substitution for daylight. The bed in the center of the room is…unusually large.

He thanks the young elf who has shown him to the room, but as he moves to close the door after her departure, he finds it thrown open again. It hits violently against the wall.

Thranduil stands in the doorway for a long moment, taking in the sight before him as though unsure if Glorfindel is truly there or simply a phantom.

But then the elf king attacks, throwing himself upon his guest with fervor. Only Glorfindel’s sharp reflexes, honed over millennia of battle training, keeps them from both crashing to the floor. 

Thranduil’s mouth is harsh, as though he wishes to devour Glorfindel, the kiss more teeth than gentle lips. His hands find the pin of the other elf’s travel cloak, fumble with it, then simply tear the material free to fall to the floor at their feet.

“You do not understand,” Thranduil hisses when he finally breaks to allow them to gasp for breath, “the agony – the agony which I have endured - ”

“I understand well enough.” is the reply, as Glorfindel clasps his lover’s hands to prevent him from destroying more of the clothing he wears. He forces Thranduil to still so that he may look upon him. His gaze once again maps the elf king’s face; the thick eyebrows, the regal nose, the thin lips made full and rosy by their furious kiss.

“I have missed you.” He breathes.

At those words, Thranduil will no longer be held still and silent. He tugs his hands free from Glorfindel’s grasp and throws down his own outer robe before returning to attack the other elf’s lips with his own. 

“Come, let me make you regret forcing me to leave you behind in Imladris.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please let me know if there is anything else I should or could tag! And thank you for reading!

Their reunion is as violent as it is tender. Thranduil has seen to it that a generous supply of salve has been installed in the small chest of drawers beside the bed, but Glorfindel guesses that it will be long gone before winter is over.

Thranduil is reluctant to part from him, to have them unconnected by some part of their bodies for long enough to even finish removing their clothing. His hands are quick and insistent, but it is Glorfindel’s steady, efficient movements which finally renders them naked.

As the last whisper of cloth flutters to the floor, Thranduil surges forward to press his cock against Glorfindel’s own. Their equal height allows them to fit together in a way which makes Glorfindel’s heart flutter like fragile bird wings inside his chest.

Thranduil’s skin is hot and smooth, and he rubs against Glorfindel’s body like an affectionate cat. His teeth nip along Glorfindel’s jawline, and Glorfindel recalls as a bolt of lust shoots through him the elf king’s particular weakness.

In answer, he sinks his teeth into the soft area between Thranduil’s neck and shoulder and feels him shudder in his arms. The bite lends an outlet to some of the tension in Glorfindel’s own body, momentarily banks the burning desire which threatens to overwhelm him far too soon. 

“Valar, I almost forgot what this was like!” Thranduil cries, fingers digging hard into Glorfindel’s hips. 

“Surely any one of the subjects in your kingdom would have gladly - ”

Thranduil presses a finger firmly to his mouth, “Not _this_ , you. Just you. Now, stop teasing and climb onto that bed. I gave it to you for a reason.”

Glorfindel raises an eyebrow, then turns and crosses the room.

“Your hair is even longer now than when we first met. It quite obscures the view.”

He feels the ends of his hair brush the backs of his knees as he walks, can hear the hesitancy hardly concealed by cynicism in Thranduil’s voice, and knows the elf king must be remembering the reason why Glorfindel keeps his hair so long.

Glorfindel turns to offer a reassuring smile, “I have been well, only too preoccupied to have it cut.”

Thranduil’s gaze is scrutinizing, yet now that Glorfindel has turned to face him, he is soon once again distracted by desire. His eyes follow the other elf’s long legs, pause briefly, then continue up over his stomach and chest.

“Are you content, then, to simply stare at me all evening?”

In answer Thranduil, too, crosses the room. He lays one hand firmly in the center of Glorfindel’s chest, and pushes. 

Glorfindel allows himself to fall back onto the bed.

“You seemed content to do the same mere moments ago, when I wanted to touch and taste.”

Any retort Glorfindel might make is quickly cut off as Thranduil follows him down, covering the balrog slayer’s body with his own. Their lower legs still hang over the side of the bed, but they have time to see to that detail later. 

They simply kiss for long moments. Thranduil grows increasingly urgent before Glrofindel gentles him again, and then again.

The third time, the elf king will no longer be held back.

He jumps up onto all fours, his knees bracketing Glorfindel’s hips. 

“Turn over.” He orders.

“I cannot.”

“You refuse?”

“You are kneeling on my hair.”

Thranduil blinks down at him, once, twice, then a smirk spreads itself slowly across his face. 

The elf king grasps Glorfindel against himself and rolls them both over, spreading his thighs to allow Glorfindel’s legs to drop and settle between them. 

Glorfindel props himself up on his elbows to gaze down at the elf beneath him but his hips are not still, rolling gently against Thranduil’s own. 

“I have not asked,” he says at length, “how you have fared since we parted.”

Thranduil stills beneath him, “more talking?”

“We do have our best conversations while naked in bed.”

Thranduil seems to consider that as he reaches up to gather Glorfindel’s hair together at the nape of his neck, slowly winding it up and around and out of the way. When he is finished, his hands trail slowly down the sides of the balrog slayer’s face before dropping back to rest beside him on the bed. 

His eyes will no longer meet Glorfindel’s own. “This goes deeper than lust. You know it does, I know it does. Just because we spend so much time in bed together does not mean we - ”

Glorfindel presses his lips to the ones beneath him to silence the words, “Do not sound so uncertain, and do not doubt us. There are lovers who hardly leave their bed for the first decade of their relationship, it does not mean that desire is all they have. Our meeting was sudden, and unexpectedly poignant, and now we have been apart for nearly a year. This is not unexpected.”

“No, it is not,” Thranduil replies, and his voice is hard and distant, “and I am done with talking!”

Glorfindel finds himself once again on his back, his head pillowed by the large knot the elf king has tied into his hair. His hips are hauled upwards to rest on Thranduil’s thighs as the elf king kneels on the bed. 

Thranduil is brutal. He twists his long torso to reach the drawer beside the bed, makes quick yet purposeful use of the salve before casting the pot aside to bounce against the pillows. Then he is sliding into Glorfindel’s body in one insistent, shivery push. 

Glorfindel shudders and cries out, and knows Thranduil will stop if he asks.

But he does not ask.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two new chapters in two days! Thank goodness for the weekend!

When dawn arrives they are still laying pressed tightly together in the bed. Thranduil is curled into Glorfindel's side and plays with the ring, his ring, which he had given Glorfindel before departing Imladris the year before. Glorfindel has worn it ever since. Thranduil twists the ring round and round the balrog slayer's middle finger, deep in thought.

“You are troubled.” Glorfindel says finally, gazing up at the carved cavernous ceiling above them.

“I am relieved.” Is Thranduil’s reply.

Glorfindel shifts onto his side with a hiss, his shoulders and collar bones covered in bruises and the fading impressions of blunt teeth, “Relieved, or released?”

“Both.” The elf king counters quickly, thoughtlessly.

In the sickly light emanating from the crystal wall sconces, Glorfindel studies Thranduil. It seems as though he has hardly taken his eyes off the elf king since arriving in Mirkwood, but now he searches with new purpose. 

“Did you not rest well?”

Thranduil effectively feigns indignation, “Were you not in this bed last night? With whom did I spend the night in pleasure with until the pre-dawn hours, if not you?”

Glorfindel chuckles, “it must have been me, though I confess I find it impossible to judge the passage of time underground.”

“Then why do you ask?”

The elf king drops his lover’s hand and rolls away onto his back to gaze up at the ceiling. Glorfindel studies him with sharp eyes. If the elf king were mortal, Glorfindel would almost guess that he has been ill.

He reaches up to run the back of one knuckle down the side of Thranduil’s face, watches his eyes flutter closed and his lips part. When his eyes open, he has lost the vacant, tortured look and appears once again to be himself. 

“You never did get to bathe last night.”

“If I recall, you had much to do with that.”

“I would join you, but the duties of a king are ever-present.” Thranduil continues.

Glorfindel nods in understanding. He climbs out of the bed to locate their discarded clothing, tossing Thranduil’s crumpled robe to him. 

He feels a not-unpleasant thrum of discomfort as he moves, which he is sure a hot bath will ease. Memories of Thranduil’s intense passion the night before cause the muscles in his lower abdomen to clench, and he must take a deep breath to steady himself before turning to face the elf king again.

Thranduil makes no move to leave the bed. His eyes feast on Glorfindel as the balrog slayer reaches up to untangle his hair, watches the shift of muscle under smooth skin. His hand moves under the thin blanket, and Glorfindel’s own cock rises with the knowledge that he has rendered his lover once again hard and wanting. 

Glorfindel meets the elf king’s eyes and removes his hands from his hair, allowing it to fall long down his back once more. 

“Get back in this bed.” Thranduil growls. “Your bath and my duties can wait.”

“Are you always so reluctant to start the day, here?” Glorfindel teases, echoing Thranduil’s words spoken in Imladris the year before.

“Do I look reluctant?” comes the reply.

Glorfindel smiles, “very reluctant.”

“Well, we have no fear of your lord finding us in bed together here.”

“No, we do not.” Glorfindel replies softly.

He is close enough now that when Thranduil surges upwards, he is able to catch hold of Glorfindel’s arm and haul him back down onto the bed. 

Glorfindel settles himself over Thranduil, who seems content to let the other elf have his way with him. 

Glorfindel quickly takes advantage of that fact.

******

The communal baths, fed by an underground spring, are still occupied even so late into the morning. A hush falls over the place as Glorfindel enters, and though he does not look at those who turn to stare at him, he nevertheless can feel the weight of their gazes.

He pauses briefly to wonder if Thranduil would rather he not flaunt the evidence of what he had been doing the previous night. As a guest, it would likely not be uncommon for him to remain wrapped in a light robe until he has entered the water. Modesty, after all, is more common among those in Imladris than in Mirkwood, where the people take direction from their shameless king. 

Yet if he can face a balrog, he can face Thranduil’s people.

There is at least one audible gasp as Glorfindel sheds his robe and the bruises on his collar bones are revealed. There is no mistaking their cause. 

They watch him as he steps into the pool and lowers himself into the water, eyes cast down. His hair floats and spreads around him like a curtain. 

When he does look up, he realizes that it is better Thranduil did not accompany him. The elf king’s jealousy would cause him to drive his subjects from the bath, which could only ignite farther gossip among the kingdom. 

Glorfindel washes quickly and efficiently. He speaks to no one, and no one speaks to him, though the weight of their stares, some awe-filled, some heavy with desire, and some suspicious, never go away.

Afterwards, he dries his hair as best he can. In Imladris, he would sit in an open window and allow the sun to dry it, but such is not an option in Mirkwood. Even if he were to leave the underground city, the thick trees of the forest block the light. 

He shudders at the thought. Even the isolated fortress city of Gondolin had not felt so oppressive, and he knows he would not wish to spend an extended period of time in Thranduil’s forest kingdom.


	4. Chapter 4

It is as he attempts to navigate the complex maze of corridors back to his room that Glorfindel is ambushed. 

Legolas emerges from the shadows as though he has been waiting for him to pass by. Likely he has. The elf prince is dressed as though he will soon depart for battle, his lethal knives strapped to his back, tunic the color of new leaves and moss to blend seamlessly into the forest.

They greet each other pleasantly enough, and the young prince courteously offers to show Glorfindel to his room. The balrog slayer accepts.

He watches Legolas discreetly from the corner of his eye as they walk. There is something of his father in him, but Glorfindel thinks he must take more after his mother. He is not as tall, and his features are softer than those of the Mirkwood king. 

“I have bright memories of you from the times I have journeyed to Imladris, you have been kind to me, you have shared your wisdom with me.” Legolas says after a while, “But I would speak to you on an important matter, now, lord Glorfindel.”

Glorfindel nods his agreement.

Legolas hesitates, “your presence here, I know it is for more than just to purchase wine.”

“You are correct, of course, for my own part. But that is the reason Lord Elrond has sent me.”

“I must speak plainly, Lord Glorfindel.” The elf prince stops walking, forcing Glorfindel to do the same. “What is it between my father and yourself?”

Glorfindel regards him carefully, “I assumed you knew, prince. We are lovers.”

“How carelessly you banter that word around!” Legolas cries, “Surely you know that your presence here, your presence in my father’s bed, dishonours my mother’s memory!”

“I can honestly say I have not been in your father’s bed.” Glorfindel counters lightly, “Have you spoken to your father of your feeling regarding this?”

Legolas turns and begins to stalk down the corridor once more, “I am speaking to _you_ about it! You have blinded my father to reason, you have overwhelmed his ability to rationalize with lust. He is besotted by you; he speaks of nothing and no one else!”

“There are those in Imladris who say the same of him with regards to me.”

The elf prince waves one hand sharply, as if to dismiss the words, “He is a _king_. He has duties and responsibilities, and this dalliance with you can only serve to sully his reputation among his people!”

“With respect, prince, his wife has passed. We do nothing which is frowned upon, nothing which anyone could find objectionable.” Glorfindel’s long legs have no problem keeping up with the furious pace of the agitated prince. “Save you, perhaps, but I do not blame you for your anger.”

“And what of Lord Elrond? I have spoken with his sons, I know you were lovers before you abandoned him in favour of my father. _His_ wife still lives!” the prince’s eyes flash, “I did not see it before, but you are temptation personified, you beguile them with your gentle ways and your long golden hair, and worm your way into their minds and their beds. You are wicked!”

“And you have your father’s stubborn temper, I see that plainly. Do not be angry with me, Legolas, and do not fault your father for wanting companionship and comfort.”

“And what of love?”

“That too.”

“He loved my mother!”

“Her too. There are many forms of love, and none are more true or less so than others. Is he to consign himself to just one love, now absent from him, to satisfy all the millennia of his existence? Is that not cruel, prince?” the balrog slayer deliberately gentles his tone once more, “I do not seek to erase your mother’s memory, that is something which no one could ever do, but do not doubt that I love your father.”

“Did you mean to say ‘love’, or is it lust that you were thinking of? After all, you have known him for far shorter a time and yet have been infinitely more intimate than - ”

“I will not say more on the matter. Clearly your argument is with your father, as it should be, and not with your realm’s _diplomatic guest_.”

“I see. As you say, Lord Glorfindel.” Legolas stops walking, “Here we are, my father’s chamber.”

“Yet I was searching for my own.”

“Do you truly not know, Lord Glorfindel? They are one and the same.”

******

“Your son disapproves of me.” Glorfindel says before taking a sip of wine.

It is late in the evening, and he sits with Thranduil in matching chairs in front of the fire. Not too close, just near enough for its warmth to drive away the ambient chill of the underground room.

“My son is protective of his mother’s memory.” Thranduil counters absently, “But come, let us get business out of the way so we may devote the remainder of the winter to pleasure. How kind of your lord to allow his seneschal to embark on such a menial task!”

“Lord Elrond is kind - ”

“Enough, you know my opinions of your lord, and you cannot sway them otherwise. What wine would he have you order?”

“A barrel or two of this, certainly.” Glorfindel remarks, taking a sip of the strong, heady red, “Perhaps several.”

“I will arrange it.”

“Arwen will be returning from Lothlorian this year. There is a white wine from the north, made of apples rather then grapes, which she is fond of.”

Thranduil nods sharply, perfunctorily, “I know it. We can bear to part with a barrel or two, for a price.”

“And now that our business is done, will you not speak to your son?”

“In your favour?”

Glorfindel shrugs, “Or against me, if you wish, but you should speak with him. You are his father, and to him it appears that you have cast the memory of his mother aside in favour of a wild dalliance with me.”

“A wild dalliance!” Thranduil barks in protest.

“He does not understand, Thranduil.”

“They do call you wise, I forget that, sometimes.” The elf king concedes.

“And they call you impetuous. They may be right on both accounts, or on neither.” He meets the smile blossoming in Thranduil’s gaze with one of his own, “Speak with your son, my lover.”

Thranduil rises slowly from his chair, his eyes dark, “say that again.”

“Say what, my lover?”

“Yes, that, exactly that.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this while listening repeatedly to The Sound of Silence by Disturbed (because it came on the radio last week while I was driving and I nearly put my car off the road, and I’ve been obsessed ever since.) So, if you’re someone who likes to read to mood music, that’s the good song for this.

Glorfindel squeezes his eyes shut in an effort to hold himself back as Thranduil shatters beneath him, the elf king’s body clenching down almost painfully hard around his cock.

They are joined together face to face, their bodies surging together in the center of the large bed, legs interwoven as inseparably as their breaths. Thranduil’s head is thrown back into the pillows, the long column of his throat stretched taut, and Glorfindel runs his lips up and down the tendons of his neck as he waits for the elf king to ride out his orgasm.

Thranduil’s hard length is trapped between them. Glorfindel can feel it pressed low against his belly.

“Please…please!” Thranduil gasps.

Glorfindel relents, scraping his teeth gently down the soft skin of Thranduil’s throat. Thranduil cries out, his hands clutching desperately at Glorfindel’s shoulders.

The reborn elf offers up a silent plea to the Valar that, no matter what the future holds between them, in a thousand years’ time he will still be able to recall the memory of Thranduil in this moment. 

Glorfindel’s hips stutter to a stop.

After a long moment Thranduil shakes himself from bliss to gaze up at him questioningly. “What do you need?”

The elf king’s hands spread wide across his back, moving down and along his flanks in a touch that is gentle enough to be calming, firm enough to be grounding, and soft enough to be arousing. 

“Just touch me.” Glorfindel breathes, “Touch me now and never stop. I want to feel your touch always. I never want to forget it, even in the darkness when they take everything else from me and I am left alone to - ”

He realizes he is murmuring rambling nonsense, and grits his teeth together to stem the flow of words.

There is a whisper of concern in Thranduil’s eyes, but he does as the other elf asks nonetheless, rocking his hips down onto Glorfindel’s cock even while his hands roam his body. 

Glorfindel closes his eyes, desperately trying to drown himself in the sensation, desperately trying to stave off his own release. He doesn’t want it to end, can’t let it end just yet. He can’t even think of the moment when he must pull himself from Thranduil’s body and be separated from him once again. 

As if sensing his reluctance, Thranduil redoubles his efforts, catching Glorfindel’s face in his hands to press determined kisses against his lips. 

Glorfindel’s release crashes upon him like an ocean wave, slow and forceful and deep. He drops his forehead to hide his face against Thranduil’s shoulder and moans. 

The elf king is uncharacteristically tender, brushing a stray strand of hair back from the side of his face, running his finger tips up and down the knobs of his spine, and Glorfindel wants to weep at it. Instead he reaches up to wrap one hand around the back of Thranduil’s head before crashing their lips together.

This time it is Thranduil who must pull him back and calm him, and Glorfindel accepts the direction willingly.

Eventually, Glorfindel softens and slips from the pliant body beneath his own. With a sigh he rolls away from the elf king to stare across the room at the dying fire. 

Thranduil follows, coming to rest curled against Glorfindel’s back, one arm flung over the balrog slayer’s waist to pull their hips flush together. Glorfindel can feel his breath, warm against the tip of his ear. 

“I would not have any secrets between us.”

He hears the hint of betrayal in the elf king’s voice, no matter how carefully hidden. They have told each other every torment which plagues them, after all. Glorfindel can boast of knowing more about Thranduil than Thranduil’s own son. 

But there is one horror which Glorfindel has never spoken of, not even in his mad ravings in the years after his return.

“It was a momentary fear, nothing more. It has passed.”

“And yet you still tremble, and you will not look at me where a moment ago you seemed to want to crawl into my skin and nest there.”

Glorfindel gasps out a broken breath at the imagery. He could not be close enough to Thranduil, it was true. He would fuse them into one being if it were only possible. As it was he ached to do the impossible; to give up everything if it meant he would never again have to leave his embrace.

“I thought only of Mandos’ Halls.”

Thranduil’s thumb rubs soothing patterns against his abdomen, “You fear returning there.”

“Elves do not fear death as Men do.” Glorfindel counters bitterly.

“Most elves have never died, except those who reside there still. Some perhaps never will." 

Glorfindel bites hard into his lip until he tastes blood, “They took my memories of that place when they re-made me, but every so often I catch a momentary glimpse, a fleeting recollection.”

“And you want to remember?” Thranduil assumes.

The balrog slayer shudders, “I want to forget.”

“Then let me help you to forget.”

“You cannot – you cannot be ready again so soon!” Glorfindel exclaims.

Thranduil's touch is electric, and it drives the vestiges of horror from Glorfindel's mind. There is a small teasing smile on the elf king's face.

“By the time I have you prepared, I will be.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So...I've been away for a while. Honestly, I thought I had finished this story long ago, but then I found the bits and pieces I had written for it and never posted, and...well, here we are. I'm not sure if anyone is still interested in reading this, but I'm going to try to finish it up in the next little while here anyway. I did re-read the first part of the story, but if you notice I mention something that I have already mentioned previously, or something like that, let me know.
> 
> Also, the reason I haven't been writing fan fiction for a while is because I was working on my final practicum project (as well as an original novel). Well, I graduated last week! Go me! Haha I can't believe it's finally over. Anyway, on with the story!

The pillow is a tangle of gold and silver hair. It is morning, or nearly so. Even so many weeks after arriving in Mirkwood, Glorfindel remains distrustful of his ability to calculate the passage of time. 

Thranduil still sleeps, his eyes fixed and unseeing, gazing off into the middle distance. His hand lays curled on Glorfindel’s chest, and the balrog slayer eventually gives in to the impulse, carefully sliding his own hand into that of his lover so that he can run his thumb over the knuckles. 

He has awoken to find he is hard, but also that he does not wish to do anything at all about it. He enjoys the low, persistent throb of arousal. 

If Thranduil discovers the state he is in, the elf king will work quickly to bring him to release. So, too, would be the case if Thranduil woke to find his own cock had become hard in the night, chasing pleasure and relief until he is sated. 

He lies still so as to avoid disturbing the elf king, and chases the memories of horror around his own mind. It is true he remembers little of Mandos’ Halls but for all-consuming darkness and a terrible loneliness. Was it because he was meant to come back? Did they keep him isolated and hidden to better suppress his memories once he was given physical form once again?

But they had broken him. It had taken Elrond decades to chip away the madness and absentminded misery. 

His mind continues to work independently from his body, turning over memories and questions even as his arousal continues to simmer. He twitches his hips up against the blanket when his cock shows signs of giving up on release and quieting. 

An hour later his cock is an angry red and straining. It is then that Thranduil wakes.

The elf king blinks and stretches languidly against him. Glorfindel stills, but the blanket is thin and smoothed across the breadth of the bed and his state is obvious. 

A chuckle and Thranduil is moving, rising to loom above him, nudging his knees between Glorfindel’s own just as Glorfindel knew he would. But as much as the balrog slayer would welcome the comforting weight of his lover in that moment to drive the last vestiges of horror from his mind, the elf king does not comply.

Instead he eases himself back until he is laying prone between Glorfindel’s legs. Propped on his elbows, Thranduil levels a teasing smirk up at him. 

And that is when Thranduil blows a stream of cooling air against his cock before taking it into his mouth. 

Glorfindel gasps, every muscle in his body pulling taut as a bowstring. He is not familiar with this type of pleasure; they had been less than adventurous in Gondolin, and Imladris is hardly more so. Perhaps it is common in Mirkwood?

But he cannot think about it, he cannot think of much of anything at all. Despite all his great age and wisdom, he is still at the mercy of the needs and desires of his body. And his body, his tortured cock, very much likes what the elf king is doing with his tongue. 

Glorfindel comes startlingly soon and violently, Thranduil continuing to lave his cock until it softens and Glorfindel begins to calm once more. 

“Good morning,” he laughs softly.

The elf king presses a kiss to the expanse of skin between his cock and his navel. It spasms in response, and Glorfindel groans. He clasps Thranduil’s face between his palms and draws the other elf bodily up towards him to claim his lips with his own. Thranduil goes willingly, with a small huff of amusement which quickly turns into a moan as Glorfindel strokes his tongue across Thranduil’s own. 

“Ah, release me, you insatiable creature!” Thranduil cries when the kiss breaks long moments later, but then he sobers “are you well?”

Glorfindel nods, and Thranduil’s smile returns once more. 

“I would linger here with you, but it is late now, and - ”

“Duty calls?” Glorfindel hazards to finished.

Thranduil stretches to press a kiss to Glorfindel’s mouth once more, “yes.”

He sits up and attempts to leave the bed, brushing at the long strands of golden hair that have wrapped themselves around him in the night. Glorfindel laughs.

“Confound this hair of yours!” but the elf king is not truly cross. 

“Don’t pull so hard, that is still attached to my scalp.”

The elf king huffs, “I wonder you don’t keep it bound!”

But then he stills, and Glorfindel waits, blinking at him impassively. 

“I – forgive me, I didn’t - ”

“It was my hair, long and unbound, that was my undoing." Glorfindel says softly, "That is what the balrog caught hold of as he fell, and took me with him. It would be well expected that I now shun the very idea of keeping my hair long, and yet instead I find it’s presence a comfort, as you know.”

Thranduil nods his understanding, and Glorfindel can tell that the elf king is torn between offering what reassurance he can and leaving to see to his kingdom.

"Go, Thranduil." he sighs in amused exasperation, "I am not a child, I can deal with a momentary grief."

It is evident that Thranduil still hesitates, though he rises and begins the search for his clothing. Glorfindel thinks of Elrond’s twin sons. He has hardly seen them since the three of them arrived in Mirkwood. 

“I should find Elladan and Elrohir and apologize for abandoning them in an unfamiliar kingdom. They have been alone all this time while I have been with you.”

“Then you have not noticed?” The elf king searches his lover's confused face, “You have not! I am tempted to keep it from you a while longer, but knowing it will ease your heart. I have it on good authority that my son and the sons of your lord have found their way into the same bed together. They are likely there now, and will remain so until they are fetched out and away.”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Huge thanks to mcapps for putting this story back on my radar again! I'll finish it really soon here, I promise!

The screaming begins at midnight. It brings Glorfindel running from across the room where he had gone to pour himself a drink of water, and he braves the flailing limbs to take the elf king into his arms and soothe him. 

Thranduil wakes in those arms, with long nimble fingers stroking through the fine hairs at his temple. In his torment the illusion has been cast aside, revealing his fire-ravaged face. His instinct is to turn away and hide it but Glorfindel, well aware of this, holds him fast. 

“Hush now. What - ” He is cut off momentarily by the desperate press of the elf king’s lips against his own, “What is it that troubles your dreams?”

“Dragon fire.”

Glorfindel shudders, “then I am glad that I was here to wake you.”

“As am I.” comes Thranduil’s reply in the darkness, and he clings fiercely to Glorfindel for the remainder of the night, but can not fall back asleep.

In the morning he wakes Glorfindel with soft kisses and softer words. He presses the other elf back into the bed with the weight of his body, then mounts him like a stallion, rutting into him as if to chase away the last vestiges of nightmare. 

The back of the balrog slayer’s neck and shoulders are covered in bruises and bite marks, soothed by the tickle of pale hair and the lathe of an apologetic tongue. Glorfindel still does not mind. 

Afterwards they lay tangled together, as has become their custom in the mornings. Thranduil’s advisors have come to expect the elf king for meetings and councils at least an hour later than before Glorfindel’s arrival. 

“You said once that you thought the Valar may have a hand in this.” Thranduil says eventually near Glorfindel’s ear.

The fire has burned low and the chamber is cool. They lay pressed chest to chest, and Thranduil warms his nose in the crook of the balrog slayers neck.

“I recall. I have felt nothing to make me doubt it.”

“Which leaves the question of why they would see fit to do this to us.”

"Do you regret it?" 

"Of course not. Still, I wonder." 

Glorfindel sighs, “I learned long ago that their ways are as unfathomable to us as the vast expanse of the sky is to the fish of the sea.”

Thranduil is quiet for a long moment, and then asks, “Do you know why you were brought back?”

“No, that they kept from me. And upon my return I was hardly in a state to wonder at it, not for a very long time.”

The elf king raises his head to regard his lover’s face. “Tell me.”

“I was…empty. Insane, perhaps, truly mad. They could not keep me at the Grey Havens, I had to be shipped to Elrond tied spread eagle on the back of a cart to avoid injury to myself or those who travelled with me. It took him years and all the healing skill he possessed to bring me back to myself.”

“Is that usual for one who returns?”

“Who is to say?” Glorfindel twitches a strand of Thranduil’s hair between his fingers, “Perhaps my mind was fractured in some way by the rebirth, perhaps even before that. Perhaps the nature of my death, the…method…was enough to disturb its fragile state. The nightmares are evidence enough of that.”

“And what of my nightmares?” Thranduil demands, “I did not die, and yet I am plagued by them still.”

“It is a trauma, my lover. Even a mortal man who is so injured may still fear fire long after the burn is healed, and we are ageless, our memories infinitely more meticulous and vast.”

“And yet you…”

“What, Thranduil. Tell me.”

“You make them go way.” His voice is soft and fragile, like a child’s. “When I fall asleep in your arms…my dreams are untroubled.”

Suspicion blooms along with sorrow in Glorfindel’s breast. “How troubled have your dreams been since leaving Imladris in the spring?”

“I have not slept through a night since we parted.” The elf king admits lowly. 

The words are so soft that only the keenness of Glorfindel’s ears allows him to catch the words. “Oh, Thranduil…”

“I do not need your sympathy!” the elf kings spits out.

“You have it.” Glorfindel breathes.

He catches hold of Thranduil, who makes to rise from the bed, rolls them both over and pins the elf king beneath him. Glorfindel sinks his teeth into the meat of Thranduil’s shoulder, and the elf king goes limp and compliant under him. He gentles the bite with a lick and a kiss, and then moves down to tease one brown nipple.

"Villain!" Thranduil hisses, but does not move to escape. 

"Elrond has a special blend of herbs, I shall ask him for some to give you. They eased my nightmares when first I was plagued by them."

"I want nothing from your lord." Thranduil growls, "Except you."

Glorfindel shakes his head, amused. "It is not within his power to give me to you."


	8. Chapter 8

The letter arrives just as the snow begins to melt, and signs of spring in the form of purple crocuses creep up above the snow. It is carried by the first messenger who will dare make the journey through the mountains after the long and bitter winter. 

“He feels you have betrayed him.” Thranduil says, reading over Glorfindel’s shoulder, his arms wrapped around the other elf’s neck.

“I have.” Is the reply as Glorfindel reads and re-reads his lord’s words, “He sent his sons with me thinking they would be safe. He did not intend for me to be so distracted that I would allow them to be corrupted by your son.”

“By _my_ son? Who among them is it who has done the corrupting? His sons are grown, and then some.”

“As is yours.”

“Yet still they have an advantage of age against Legolas, and the advantage of experience as well.”

“Are you so certain of that?”

“Believe me, if anyone has been corrupted, it is my son who has had his innocence stolen by Elrond’s twin terrors.” Thranduil draws back from Glorfindel with a snarl, “Damn your lord and his simpering ways!”

Glorfindel rises to his feet, “You will not curse him!”

“I will curse him in my own kingdom if it pleases me to do so! I curse him, and I curse his sons and their promiscuity, and I curse your loyalty to the lot of them!”

“And do you also curse me?” the balrog slayer demands.

“I curse you most of all” Thranduil replies softly, and his expression when he turns to face his lover is no longer angry but tortured, “I curse you when you refuse to remain here with me. I curse you when you insist on returning to Elrond and to Imladris. I curse you when you lay sleeping in my bed, and I force myself to remain awake so that I may glut myself on the sight of you while I can. I curse you most of all when I realize how thoroughly you have stolen my heart - ”

Glorfindel is across the room in two strides, his large hands soothing down the now tear-streaked planes of Thranduil’s face. 

“Do not think” he murmurs into the king’s ear, “that I do not understand the full breadth of your feelings, or that I do not reciprocate them, but we have had this argument before.”

“It was not settled before.”

“It was settled.” Glorfindel counters, pressing calming kisses to the elf king’s eyelids, his cheeks, his lips, “As much as we are able to settle it, it is settled. Do not ask for more than I am able to give. I swore an oath to Elrond which I will not break.”

Thranduil’s fingers wind their way through the long strands of Glorfindel’s unbound hair, “Elrond should understand more than anyone the dangers of swearing oaths.”

“So do I, or have you forgotten how ancient I truly am? I was there when Fëanor and his sons, all but one, entered Mandos halls. I know what it is they suffered, and I know what Elrond and his brother suffered because of it.” He is making slow progress on the ties of Thranduil’s robes, now, the delicate hand-tied buttons, the silk embroidery, “But this oath is not like that one was. I trust Elrond with my life, and I trust he will never ask me to perform any task which I would not readily do on my own.”

“Any task but one which would see you remain with me.”

“I cannot serve him from so far away.”

“Oh, do you serve him still?”

Suddenly, Glorfindel abandons the tedious buttons. Grasping either side of the robe he wrenches it open, the sound of rending fabric scarcely covering Thranduil’s gasp, “Not in that way. He has not been to my bed nor I to his, and well you know it.”

“Perhaps I know it. Perhaps I require you to reassure me of the fact.”

“You are insufferable.” Glorfindel says, before silencing any reply the elf king may make with a kiss.

“And what am I to do about the nightmares if I am to no longer have you by my side?” Thranduil demands when the kiss ends.

“I cannot remain here to sooth your nightmares forever, Thranduil.” Glorfindel says evenly. “I will send Elrond’s herbs to you.”

“Very well, if that is all I am to get from you.” The elf king growls, pulling away from the balrog slayer’s embrace. “Perhaps it _is_ better you leave, then. Your presence soothes the nightmares, it is true. But meeting you brought them back full force, centuries after they had settled into little more than the occasional annoyance.”

“Do not be petulant.” Glorfindel scolds. “Would you give up your kingdom to come and live with me in Imladris?”

“You know I cannot. My son is too young and inexperienced to rule.”

“Your son is nearly five hundred years old.” Glorfindel counters patiently. 

“Yes, and what great age is that?" the elf king questions with a wave of his hand in the air, "I cannot even recall when I was so young, can you?”

“You can no more give up your kingdom than I can give up mine”

“You do not rule Imladris!” Thrandruil thunders. 

“No, but I care for it.”

“You care for it, or do you care for him?”

“Thranduil - ”

“Tell me, do you care for him?” the elf king’s voice is cold.

“As my lord and as my friend, I do care for him.”

“More than you care for me?”

“Don’t - ”

Thranduil stalks forward, grasps the balrog slayer's chin so that he may meet his eyes, "I will have the truth from you."


End file.
